All That You Can't Leave Behind
by Scribblesinink
Summary: John's gone after a demon, alone. And he left his journal behind... Written for the SPN Remix.


**Author notes**: Written for spnremix. Based on "Heat And Dust" by longhairedlady over on LiveJournal. I'd link if I could...

* * *

**All That You Can't Leave Behind**

**  
**

"What's that?" Dean asked, nodding at the transparent plastic bag dangling from Sam's finger.

"Apples."

Sam folded himself into the passenger seat, squeezing two grocery bags, his apples and his lanky self through the Impala's doorway.

"I can see that." Dean snorted a laugh. "But, apples? Sammy, dude, that's—"

"I happen to like apples, okay?" Sam's voice held a hint of warning and Dean decided to back off. Sam was cranky enough as it was these days, and though normally Dean wasn't against riling his little brother up a bit, Dad was waiting for them back at the motel, and he didn't feel like trying to explain what bug got up Sam's ass this time. He did far too much refereeing already.

"Sure. Freak." Dean slipped a hand inside one of the grocery bags balancing on Sam's knees and groped for the red foil of a Doritos bag that peeked out from between the supplies. He managed to pull it out and tore the foil with his teeth, his other hand never leaving the steering wheel as he navigated the car through the heat-glazed streets of the town he'd begun calling Buttfuck, Arizona. Never within earshot of Dad, though.

"Did you get the Bud I asked you for?" Dean asked around a mouthful of corn chips.

"No." Sam slunk deeper into the seat. "They wouldn't sell it to me."

"Shit." The car bounced over a pothole, and Dean had to grab the wheel tight with two hands to keep the Impala from swerving onto the sidewalk. Once he had everything back under control, he shot Sam a look. "Didn't you show 'em that ID I gave you?"

"No." It came out a sullen mumble that Dean almost couldn't hear over the rumble of the engine.

"Why the hell not?" He had been looking forward to kicking it back with a cool beer while they waited for the call to come in and the sun turned the world hotter than hell on a cold day.

"Because it's fake, all right?" Sam snapped. "The guy at the register was already looking funny at me and if he'd caught on, he'd have called the cops, and who do you think Dad'd blame if that happened?"

Me, actually, Dean thought. But Sam wouldn't see it that way. And perhaps he'd even made the right call. They didn't need the cops sniffing around. He gave Sam another look but his brother was staring straight ahead, mouth set in righteous sibling offense. Dean sighed.

For a brief moment he contemplated turning around and getting the beer himself. He was, after all, legal so they couldn't very well refuse him. But they'd already reached the motel, and Dad'd be waiting for them.

Except when they bumped into the parking lot, it was conspicuously empty, the big black truck not in its spot in front of their room. "Dad's gone." Dean guided the Impala into the truck's place.

"So?"

Dean clamped his jaw to keep in the retort. Discussing Dad with Sam never ended well, and it was easier to just keep his mouth shut. So instead, he ducked into the backseat of the car and came back out with the two boxes of ammo he'd got as well as the new shovel—they'd lost the last one when the local cops back in some dive in Oklahoma decided to take a closer interest in the goings-on in their bone yard and he and Dad had to bail right in the middle of a salt 'n burn.

Juggling the ammo and the shovel, Dean unlocked the motel room door and stepped over the threshold, careful not to disturb last night's salt lines. Sam followed, and although every inch of his ridiculously tall frame shouted teenager slouch with drooping bony shoulders and scuffed toes, Dean noticed he did painstakingly lift those gigantic sneakered hooves over the salt. Sam could be annoying, but he wasn't stupid.

There was a piece of folded paper waiting on the dresser, right beside the tiny twelve-inch television with the terrible reception. Sam set down his bags and snatched the note up before Dean could.

"_'Gone after the possession case. Out in the flatlands. Call Jim if I'm not back by tomorrow,'_" Sam read aloud. "Great." He sounded like he actually meant it.

"Great?" Dean echoed, dumping the ammo boxes onto the nearest bed and planting the shovel in the corner beside the door. "What's so great about Dad going off after this demon on his own?"

Sam smirked. "That I don't have to do what _he_ wants now." He plopped down on his own bed, pulled a book from the haphazard pile on the bedside table and flipped it open. A moment later he had his face buried between the pages.

"Right," Dean said. He grimaced. With Dad gone, he'd be stuck for the rest of the day with his obnoxious little brother in this shitty motel room that didn't even have proper air conditioning. "Because knowing math is so helpful when facing homicidal ghosts. Dude, you gotta be the only kid in America who actually likes doing his homework."

Sam looked up. "I'm not gonna be hunting my whole life, Dean."

Dean rolled his eyes. _Whatever_.

A heavy silence descended upon the room. Sam stuffed his nose back into his book, munching on one of his apples and soaking up the text as if his life depended upon it—which it _so_ did not. Dean scowled. Just great. No six-pack of Bud, crummy television reception of even crummier daytime soaps, nothing to do but wait, and Sammy had his sulk on.

He glanced around the room, already bored and itchy. They had been in Arizona for nearly a week, investigating reports of a demonic possession, and it showed. A week filled with cautiously worded inquiries and scouring local news sources, hoping they'd jar something loose and learn who the poor possessed bastard was, had led to dozens of newspaper cutouts and scribbled-upon sheets of notepaper being taped to the walls in apparent disarray. Books in Latin and other archaic languages lay strewn about, yellow Post-its marking important passages. Sink-laundered socks had been draped over the back of the single desk chair to dry, and Dean's leather jacket hung on a peg on the inside of the door, while the trash can was overflowing with last night's pizza boxes and hamburger wrappers, and dirty denims peeked from a duffel bag thrown into a corner. Dad threatened bodily harm to anyone who didn't clean up after themselves but not even Marine discipline could expect to cram three men—well, two men and an ill-tempered teenager, which was even worse—into a tiny motel room without the place turning into a shambles in no time.

To give his hands something to do, Dean started folding shirts and rolling up socks, stuffing them into their bags. Dad would want to leave as soon as he got back, before the police began to investigate and started asking awkward questions. He tore the clippings from the walls, gathered them together with a paper clip, and collected the various books into a single pile.

His breath caught when he came upon one particular book, the weathered leather smooth beneath his finger tips.

"Dad left his journal," Dean said.

"Hm?" Sam murmured, not really listening.

"Dad left his journal," Dean repeated, louder. "You hear me, Sammy?" He browsed the pages and came upon a sheet with scribbled Latin. "He didn't even take the exorcism with him."

"He didn't?" Sam looked up from his math text, meeting Dean's eye. Sam knew as well as Dean that their father guarded his journal like a she-wolf her cubs. But as soon as Sam realized he was showing interest, he shrugged and tilted his head back to his book. "Guess he knows it by heart already. Dad's _good_ that way." He managed to make it sound as if remembering exorcism rites was a bad thing, probably as opposed to knowing math formulas.

"_Goddammit_, Sam."

Sam was damned lucky he was on the other side of the small room, and that there were beds and a chair in the way because otherwise, by God, Dean would've punched him. He loved his brother, would die for him, but Dad could be in trouble, and Sam decided to make another point. Lately, Dad and Sam were at each other's throats so often, Dean didn't know what to do anymore.

But then he noticed Sam watching him through his lashes with dark eyes, the gesture as close to admitting his concern as Sam could come these days. Dean's anger deflated. "I just wish I knew he was all right."

"If he had one of those cell phones, we could call him," Sam said softly.

Dean uttered a snort. "Right. Sammy, the man's a genius at putting a case together, but he can barely operate a toaster. Besides, the damn thing probably wouldn't work where he is anyway. Out in the flatlands, remember? Nothing but dust and rocks down there."

Sam shrugged. "It's just a phone. And at least you could've tried calling."

Yeah. He could've. Would've made him feel better, too. Dean rubbed the back of his neck, aware that the prickle he felt wasn't really on his skin. "I'ma call Jim," he decided. That got Sam's undivided attention.

"Already?" Sam sat up straight. "Do you know what Dad'll say if he finds out you're calling Pastor Jim just a few hours after he's gone?"

Dean nodded. He did. But Dad wasn't here right now. And that was the problem. He reached for the phone on the nightstand and dialed the number for Blue Earth, Minnesota.

"It's Dean Winchester," he said as soon as he heard Jim's voice.

_"Dean. Is everything all right?"_

"Yes... I don't know. It's..." He faltered, and Sam raised an eyebrow at him. "That possession case you got us working on?" Dean continued. "Dad's gone after the son of a bitch. Alone."

_"How long's he been gone?"_

"Coupla hours."

_"All right. Dean, your Dad's smart. He's been hunting these things for a long time. He'll be all right."_

Yeah. Dad would be. It was stupid to call Jim Murphy in the first place. Twenty-one years old, an adult, for Chrissakes, and he'd called his father's friend like a frightened toddler at the first sign of trouble.

"He left his journal," Dean said. "With the exorcism ritual you taught him last week."

There was a moment of stunned silence on the line. Somehow, it should have vindicated him but Jim's surprise didn't make Dean feel any better._"He didn't take the text with him?"_

"No. Sammy thinks it's because he knows it by heart, but—"

"Dean, that ritual is complicated," Pastor Jim interrupted. "And dangerous. If John gets even one word wrong..."

Dean squeezed his eyes shut. The air in the room was thick and it took an effort to draw it in. That was exactly what he was worried about. All it would take was one mistake, one instance of overconfidence. And Dad was nothing if not an arrogant bastard.

_"Dean, you best go and find him. And be sure to take that damn book with you." _

Despite the heat of the day and the mugginess of the small motel room, Dean shivered. The curse word coming from Jim's mouth scared him even more than the urgency in the man's voice.

But even so... "If we go after him, and he turns out to be all right..." Dad'd tear him a new one. Dean mentally listed the infractions Dad would be mad about. Not following orders; coming out on their own; putting Sammy in danger—

_"If that happens, you direct him to me,"_ Jim said. _"I'll deal with John. Now, go, Dean."_

"Jim thinks we should go look for Dad," he told Sam after he hung up. For once, thank God, Sam kept his big mouth shut. He didn't protest or demand an explanation; he just nodded.

"Where do we go?"

Dean thought it over. The note said Dad was in the flatlands. To the west of the town was a range of scraggy hills, a river ran on the south side and somewhere to the north was the Interstate. "East."

A few minutes later they were in the Impala, racing along the pitted blacktop, the sun a fiery ball in the rear view mirror burning through the dust that rose in their wake. At least it wasn't so goddamn hot anymore, but if they didn't find Dad in the next couple of hours, night was going to fall, and that'd make it impossible to find anyone or anything in the desert. Especially since it was also a new moon.

Sam sat silent in the passenger seat, picking at a tear in his jeans, just above his left knee. Dean chewed his lower lip, hands clenching and unclenching around the steering wheel.

"There." Sam pointed at something square and black in the distance, reflecting the sunlight in a bright spark.

It was Dad's truck, parked at an angle, front wheel tottering dangerously close to the dry ditch that ran alongside the road. Dean pulled up behind it and got out.

"Dad!"

The desert remained silent, except for the numerous crickets and a rattlesnake that sounded a warning somewhere in the ditch. They circled the truck; its windows were closed, the doors locked.

Dean resisted the urge to call out once more. If Dad was near, he would've answered the first time. Unless he had reason not to; in which case shouting out his name again would just annoy him. Dean looked around. The area was flat and sandy, clumps of sage brush the only thing breaking the sheer monotony of the landscape. The road shimmered in the heat haze.

"Dean. Look." Dean trotted over to where Sam knelt beside a trail that headed north opposite from Dad's truck: two pairs of fresh footsteps were leading off into the flatlands.

"Those are Dad's." Dean was certain; there was a groove in the left heel of the second set of prints from when Dad'd had a too-close encounter with a black dog, which had clawed a sliver from the rubber sole.

"Should we follow him?" Sam asked.

Dean straightened and raised a hand to shade his eyes. He tried to think._Dammit, Dad._ "Yes."

They got a few supplies from the car: guns, ammo, holy water. Dad's book. Bottled water. First aid kit. Finally, Dean was satisfied and they set off, following the trail into the scorched wasteland.

They were nearing an outcrop of jagged pillar rocks and the sun had sunk close to the horizon, casting long shadows, when the scent struck them. The metallic smell was unmistakable: blood. Lots of it, too.

"Wait." Dean grabbed Sam's arm, searching for signs of danger.

"Over there!" Sam's sharp eyes had made out a twisted form, half buried underneath a pile of loosened boulders, the ground around it stained black with dried blood. They raced to it. "Dad!"

"Oh my God." Sam stopped in his tracks once the extent of the damage became clear. "Is he..."

"No," Dean snarled. _No. Nonono._ Dad wasn't. He couldn't be... But Dean hesitated to continue.

That was when they heard his voice. "Sam... Dean..." Weak, trembling, a mere whisper of breath, hardly audible over the _whoosh_ of the evening wind that swirled up funnels of dust.

A sob escaped Sam. "Sam!" Dean clutched his brother's shoulders and shook him until Sam's eyes came up from their father's body to Dean's face. "Sammy, he's still alive. That's what matters. Run back to the road. Get an ambulance. Here." He shoved his car keys into Sam's hands, turned his brother around, and pushed him back the way they had come.

Without looking to see if Sam did as he was told, Dean dropped to his knees beside their father's blood-stained body, hands fluttering and searching for injuries. Slashes on John's arm formed a crude F. But they were shallow, and couldn't have provided the amount of blood that muddied the dust beneath his father. _So much blood._

He found the source a moment later: a deep gash in John's thigh that would need stitches. But Dad had gotten lucky: the wound had stopped bleeding by itself. Dean was sure he and Sam would've found a corpse if it hadn't. "Dad?"

John's dark eyes glittered with fever in the last of the sunlight. He swiveled his head in the direction of the sound, gaze unfocused and blinking. "Sam! Dean!"

Dean started. He hadn't heard such desperation in his father's voice since the early days after Mom died, and Dad sometimes woke up from nightmares, crying out for his sons.

"I'm right here, Dad." He uncapped the water bottle and held it to his father's mouth. Water dribbled past blistered lips.

"Dean?"

"It's all right, Dad. Ambulance'll get here soon. Here." He offered John the bottle again, and this time his father managed to swallow most of the water. John turned his eyes onto Dean's face, the look in them a little clearer and more focused.

"How?"

Dean grinned. "You taught us to track pretty good, Dad."

For a moment, the ghost of a smile played around John's mouth. Then he lay back with a groan and shut his eyes, too weakened to say any more.

"But Dad?"

John scrunched one eye open to look blearily at his son.

"You really should get a cell phone."

o0o

**Disclaimer:**These stories are based on the Warner Bros. Television/Wonderland Sound and Vision/Eric Kripke/Robert Singer series _Supernatural_. They were written for entertainment only; the author does not profit from them nor was any infringement of copyright intended. Please do not redistribute elsewhere without the author's consent.


End file.
